Ode To December
by Devilzzz
Summary: Twas the day rang midnight bells her birthday went and swept up hell, and poetry will come, and it may go, suicidal Christmas and white, white snow. Take this summary to heart :D
1. Reservation In Hell

December felt plastic. Thousands of little beads of sprinkles and wisps of white showering down the grounds of Hogwarts, around it and inside and outside within. But when Ginny leaned over and touched the snow with the tips of her fingers, crushed it, she felt no cold at all, as if snow was a part of her blood, as if it was familiar, something to breathe, see, and love. And it didn't sting her eyes.  
  
December was fake.  
  
Fake, fake, always fake. It was her birthday.  
  
And that, as well, seemed fake. It felt ignored, shunted aside, washed off a blackboard with a dripping, dripping sponge to make in nonexsistant.  
  
She spent most of her birthday outside, recalling the presents she had gotten, all fake, all fake, all fake, and she might as well have splattered them right in the snow and crushed with her feet to see if they could die.  
  
Frosted windows gleamed from the widowed, shadowed roots of the bare naked trees nearby, and Hagrid's Hut was melting of it's snow from the heat radiating from it, and she could almost feel the ember fires depriving of it's every being.  
  
Footsteps. A shiver. Calculation of nothing, touching nothing, snow was nothing, nothing was nothing. The trees looked drowned, like an arm of an innocent infant child pulled off to see if it could breathe.  
  
The scarf tightened at the crane of her neck and she soon, slipped it off. The coat she wore was ragged and hanging and she pulled it off until she was showing the oldest clothes she had ever owned---her Christmas sweater from last year and a skirt that hung to her knees, from the age of nine, her favorite skirt, fitting so snug she was still in faint disbelief that she had worn it so comfortably--sunk into it like her second flapping off in the distance of her bone...  
  
She gazed around--the fixtures of the world needn't care of what she would do next.  
  
Nobody would ever, ever, have to care. She searched into the only pocket of her skirt--the back pocket, rinsed with a stain of gray, and took out the candle.  
  
She lighted it the only thing she could---her own mouth.  
  
Her mouth felt dry, deprived like ash. She knew she could only do it once a year---she had learned it so everlastingly by heart that it felt like sneezing at the first pace---black sorrow shapes like leaves withering, then inflaming onto the candle, burning, then a timid, soft, smooth flow of fire pouring right from her lips as she mouthed wordlessly, her throat as dry as her tongue.  
  
One second, two, three, a million.  
  
Once, once, more.  
  
Blow.  
  
Blow out the candle.  
  
And then the flame explodes.  
  
She closed her eyes and wished evermore.  
  
She opened her eyes, the candle had burned right down to it's end, dripping it's wax. She let it fall to the ground and crushed it in the snow with her foot.  
  
She didn't bother to pick up her belongings---the wind was forcing them down and she only looked up the sky and spat, "That's for you December--you cold-hearted, fake, plastic bare naked dead bitch."  
  
The words were strange, but relaxed into her now rolling tongue, which was almost black. She almost wanted to laugh as she shivered all the way to the castle.  
  
He stepped out behind the tree, the snowflakes blending with his hair, like his soulmate. 


	2. Snow Must Be Satan

It's really fun not to be noticed.  
  
It's really fun to sit there alone by yourself day after day and savor the smiles that come your way but they never sit beside you. It's really fun to see her--laughing as the boys surround her--her two best friends, and it's really fun to write in the pages, scribble down notes of something that happened yesterday or a year ago, and when you rip the page out, you crumble it and eat it just to taste the damp ink. Oh, and Ginny did this everyday.  
  
December was going, and would go. She knew exactly how to say goodbye to it, just raising her wrist, looping it around her dangling fingers and letting it dangle, letting it swing as if it had died a many century ago. And it was very fun, being this way, feeling this pain and think about the things she had never said in her life, the things she wanted to say, the things she wanted to wrench.  
  
Like Harry's hair. Like Hermione's neck. Like Ron's ears. Like her own heart---oh, no too late oh no too late.  
  
She knew her flaws, all of them. Inconsideration, selfish, cruel, evil, shy too ugly too pretty too too too outstanding too too too and over and over again. It was like her favorite song--she sang it beneath her breath everyday and never let it go from the tugging of her dead little flushed fingers.  
  
If I left---she told herself, day after day of December. If I left, if I walked out of here right now and never came back again, they wouldn't notice because because because nobody ever did.  
  
~  
  
The white snow freckled across the windows, a symphony never letting down that night. He touched the windows, hearing the breaths of his dormmates, and opening it, struggling to seperate the window from the ledge rather then sit by and watch it without going down and drowning itself.  
  
He undid his pajama buttons. His front. He ran his hands through his skin, disturbingly so, the little girl saying happy birthday to herself and blowing out that candle with her own mouth her own tongue--how, how, how in eternity had she ever done that? He had been walking around aimlessly, not expecting to find something this real--but he had at last, and he wanted to throw it away.  
  
Ginny, was her name. He had vaguely saw her around, following Harry in her first year, second year disappearing, third year she was shy and fourth year--somehow she had changed in fourth year, somehow, somehow. He did not care a bit about her, and wished not to think about her at all. His head slammed against the window, the open peak he had managed to gnaw upwards, and brought his hand outside, and felt the snow tremble like it was frightened in a whisper of white as he brought it to his chest and poured it all over his bare chest, feeling damp and white and cold.  
  
He felta heated flush grow in his neck as he looked down---somehow, it seemed to make no difference, none at all, none at all.  
  
~ 


End file.
